


The Man of Iron

by tereomaori



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Drug Use, Friendship, Injured John, Original Character(s), Prison, Scotland, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock To The Rescue, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-10-20 02:45:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 15,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10653297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tereomaori/pseuds/tereomaori
Summary: 1882. Sherlock is solving a case in Scotland while John stays in London. On receiving a telegram in which Sherlock asks him to come and help him, John sets off for Dundee. But Sherlock never sent a telegram...





	1. Prologue: November 15 1882, Birlstone, Sussex

**Author's Note:**

> The Firth of Tay Railway Bridge Disaster is real, but actually happened in 1879.   
> I'm not a native speaker, but I'm doing my best:)

The flickering flame of the candle in Sherlock’s hand was the only light illuminating the little room while he was standing motionless, thinking about the strange thing he had just done. He had just left a crime scene he had meant to spend the better part of the night investigating because he could not bear to think of John spending the night alone in their room. Because unlike John, Sherlock knew there had not been only one, but three assassins involved in their case, and that all of them were still in hiding in this sleepy little village. And he had actually allowed this thought to make him so uneasy he could not focus on his hypothesis anymore and had to return to the inn to calm himself. 

So there he was, Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective, the brain without a heart, the man of iron people read about in the “Strand“. Him, feeling his breaths grow steadier with every second he spent looking at the sleeping figure in the bed. Looking at the grit in the sensitive instrument, the crack in the lens.


	2. I: December 27 1882, London, Baker Street

The rain beating hard against the window panes had been the only noise audible in the small dining room of 221a for a while. Yet there were two persons sitting opposite each other, sharing the silence: There was Mrs Hudson, of course, and there was John, whom she had invited for dinner because Sherlock had been away on a case for almost three weeks. He was in Scotland, in Dundee judging by his last telegram, and John was confined to London, unable to leave because of his patients. When Sherlock had taken up the case in the early days of December, they had both expected John would soon be able to follow him. But his patients had proved to be of a rather weak health throughout the past weeks. Now, Christmas was over, and the both of them were still stuck in the same places.

"He’ll be back soon, dear, don’t worry," said Mrs Hudson soothingly, patting John’s hand with her soft wrinkled one. 

"Yes, probably," he murmured, turning over Sherlock’s last telegram in his hands. It was three days old. Three days without a word, and he knew it just wasn’t fair how little he appreciated other people’s company when he missed that of Sherlock.

"I’ll make some tea, shall I? I find that always cheers me up," he heard their kind landlady say as she scuttled off to the kitchen. "Not so sure about you, though," she added with a desperate shake of the head, and it clearly wasn’t meant for his ears.

The ring of the doorbell startled him out of his melancholy thoughts, and he heard the boy open the door and talk to someone outside. The door closed, and he heard the boy’s voice in the kitchen.

"A telegram, Mrs Hudson. It’s for Dr Watson."  
John jumped up and rushed to the kitchen, where a rather startled Billy handed him the message. It was from Dundee, and consisted of a single sentence: 

_I need your help. S. H._

Telegram still in hand, John almost ran out of the room and up the stairs leading to their flat. Forty minutes to get to London Euston. 400 Miles of railway tracks travelling by the West Coast Main Line. Edinburgh. Then take the next train to Dundee he could possibly catch.

Within five minutes, John got ready to leave – or at least as ready as he could afford to get in order to be at Euston in time – which meant some clothes, some money and his revolver were the only things he hastily packed. Passing her as he hurried to the door, John kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek and walked out into the heavily falling rain. 

"Do take a scarf, will you? And what do I tell your patients?" she called after him, sounding rather upset.

"I’ll send you a wire as soon as I can!" he replied over his shoulder, already looking feverishly for the closest cab, thoughts revolving around Sherlock. I need your help. Sherlock would never have written a sentence like that unless he absolutely and desperately needed someone else’s help at once; it was part of his self-possessed character, and more than once his stubbornness had almost driven John mad.

Mrs Hudson just stood in the doorway for a few more minutes, gazing into the darkness until it had swallowed up the faint outlines of John’s silhouette completely.


	3. II: December 28 1882, Dundee

The station at Dundee was crowded. Crowded with travellers who were held prisoner here by one of the worst storms Dundee had ever seen. It was now precisely 7 pm, it was utterly dark and it had become entirely impossible to leave the shelter of the building, except if someone were willing to crawl out into the storm on all fours. Among all these involuntary visitors sat a tall man in a black coat, tense and erect, never taking his keen grey eyes off one of the high, narrow windows. But there was nothing to be seen outside, not even for Sherlock Holmes, so dark and impenetrable was the night that had closed in around the city.

The reason he was looking out the window was what he knew was there and what he knew must come rather than what he could see. What was there was the northern shore of the Firth of Tay, troubled waters roaring in the darkness, and the bridge, the new bridge, a technical masterpiece, spanning the whole breadth of the water in a graceful curve. And what he knew must come was an express from Edinburgh crossing the bridge to Dundee, the bridge that had made it possible to cross the Firth by train, a masterpiece indeed.

He had not been at the station long, and he had made his decision to leave the hotel just in time, just before the storm would have made it impossible for him to come and meet John after his arrival. The water dripping from his wet dark curls ran down his face and neck and made him shiver. John. The mere thought of his presence took away some of Sherlock’s tension and uneasiness, and yet he could not quite say why. Why had it been so hard to write to John that he need not follow him to Scotland now because the case was nearly solved and he would be back in a couple of days anyway? Nonetheless, Sherlock had sent him a wire telling him to stay in London, he had brought the case to a successful end and had intended to depart in two days‘ time. But, by some lucky chance, the telegram Sherlock had so reluctantly written must have missed his friend by a couple of hours, for in the morning the young detective had received a message from John announcing his arrival in Dundee by train at 7:20 pm. Having read the telegram he had realised that for the very first time in his life, a plan gone wrong made him far happier than a plan carried out successfully.

The case had cost him more strength than he was willing to admit. His eyes were burning from too little sleep and the lightness of their colour was accentuated by the dark shadows underneath. His cheeks were pale and sunken in, making the bones stand out even clearer than usual. Shivers were now incessantly running down his lean body, quite different from the feverish heat that had tormented him in his hotel room only two hours before. Every noise made him start, every crying baby, every announcement made by one of the workers, and he flinched at every involuntary contact with some person passing behind him, brushing his back or shoulder as they struggled to make their way through the crowd. All those people perched in one room would have made him feel uncomfortable even if he had been well, but in his present condition their mere presence nearly drove him mad. If it hadn’t been for John, the station would have been the last place where Sherlock would have chosen to go on such a night. But still, his longing to be in John’s presence as soon as possible had brought him there. Thoughts were whirling through his head, unfocused, but they would always return to John’s telegram. It had sounded strangely hurried, as if he had decided to leave at short notice. Sherlock had been expecting his flatmate‘s arrival for some weeks now, but had assumed he would at least send him a telegram inquiring about his current lodgings as John could not possibly have been sure he was still in Dundee. 

Suddenly it struck him that there was a place he could go to avoid the crowd and at the same time still be able to watch the bridge. He rose, made his way through piles of luggage and groups of passengers, both waking and asleep, to the doors.

His right hand was numb from knocking on the door of the northern block station for what seemed like an eternity, his body pressed to the brick wall to avoid the wind and rain, until it finally opened and the kind face of Billy Spring came into view, displaying an expression of utter astonishment.

"Mr Holmes? How on earth did you get here, Sir? Come in, come in," the young man said, waving him inside and offering him a chair. He had first met Billy at his workplace where he had spent hours questioning the railway worker after realising – far too late, in his opinion – that he might reveal crucial information about the case. Billy, though somewhat slow on the uptake, had been a kind and patient witness who had soon developed a growing admiration for the famous detective and offered him his services whenever he might need them. 

"Thank you, Billy. I’m sorry to disturb you. I was just… waiting for a friend’s arrival at the station. But it’s rather crowded now, of course, so if you wouldn’t mind my waiting here for the train to come in, I should be very grateful."

"Oh, of course you can stay, Mr Holmes, I’d be honoured! By the way, this is my colleague Andy Chadburn," the young worker replied, indicating an elderly man hunched over a desk with a pipe in his hand which he waved at both of them with a smile. "You waiting for the express from Edinburgh?" Billy asked.

The detective nodded.

"Won’t be long, then," Billy said, glancing at the clock on the opposite wall, which showed it to be 7:13. 

Billy was about to praise the British railway system for functioning so well on such a night as this when he was interrupted by the sound of a telegram being received in the small room. When it had stopped, he smiled at his famous acquaintance. 

"That would be our friends on the southern shore telegraphing that your train’s about to cross the bridge, wouldn’t it, Andy?"

"Aye, it sure would, Sir," the man confirmed his younger colleague’s announcement.

"Having first received the token," Sherlock added with a slight smile, remembering a lengthy conversation he had had about the bridge and its peculiarities with the passionate Billy.

"Just so, Sir," Billy said with a proud grin. "Should come into view in a minute or two."

They waited in silence for a while. The only sound audible apart from the wind and rain raging outside came from the hands of the clock slowly advancing to 7:16.

"There you go," Billy said in a friendly voice, pointing out two tiny pinpricks of light in the darkness. "Always in time."

The three of them watched the front lights of the train grow larger, until they really illuminated the darkness outside. Sherlock watched with growing anticipation, feeling the drowsiness and dizziness loosen its grip on his body as he focussed entirely on the warm yellow light outside coming closer. And then the lights began to fall. Still advancing, they were falling down, falling in a haze of light and colour, like a star from the sky, rushing to meet the dark water of the Firth of Tay. Then, the darkness was complete.

Sherlock felt a suffocating blackness close in around him, and his gasping breaths seemed to be cut off by heavy, painful heartbeats.

"It hasn’t…hasn’t fallen down, has it? It can’t have, Andy, you know it can’t!" he heard Billy say in a shaky voice that was not strong enough to deny what they already knew. 

Fighting back a wave of dizziness and nausea caused by his rising panic, Sherlock clutched the arms of his chair and forced his eyes and mind to focus on a task once more, their eternal task of unravelling the truth. But once the impossible had been ruled out, whatever remained, however improbable, must be the truth. He slowly got to his feet, facing the two men.

"There are only two possibilities, we all know that. Only two. Either the train has fallen off the bridge or the bridge has collapsed. Now, Billy, you told me the wires used for sending telegrams were built into the bridge, right?" Billy nodded, and Sherlock turned to Andy Chadburn, fixing him in a firm gaze. "Send a wire to the block station on the southern shore and bid them reply immediately."

The reply to this message was the only thing that made any difference now. If the train had fallen off the bridge, there was at least a chance that only parts of it had really fallen. And even if the whole train was lost, the foremost carriages would have fallen first, giving someone seated in one of the last carriages a small amount of invaluable time for action. Time to jump off, for instance. If the bridge had collapsed, there was no room left for hope in a logical mind.

The older man nodded slowly, then, with trembling hands, composed a short message. They waited. One minute. Two minutes. The same message was sent again. Five minutes had finally passed in silence. 

"This is it, then. There is no connection to the other side. The bridge has collapsed." Sherlock turned to the door and nodded to Billy Spring and Andy Chadburn. "Thank you." And he left.

He fought against the storm for two hours. When a blast of wind would hit him and throw him to his knees he would crawl on all fours until there came a chance to stand up. He had covered nearly one mile in this way, leaning onto the railing of the bridge for support, following its course in the direction of the southern shore. His hair and his clothes were soaking wet, and the cold took away his faint breath, forcing him to stop for air again and again. He only saw the abyss gaping before him when he had come to the very edge of it, suddenly looking right at the foaming water below him. The middle section of the bridge, built even higher than the rest to allow ships to pass through, was gone. The fragile frame that had been so daringly constructed to carry it had broken under the enormous pressure of the hurricane and the express train. 

"No. God, no. Why could you not wait, why? I would have come back, John…I would have come back. "

The young detective’s slender body sank to the ground, slowly, reluctantly, when he could not find the will to fight his weakness any longer. The so-called masterpiece that had cost 20 men their lives before ever it was used had claimed at least 70 more tonight, among them that of his best friend. They had had eight months.


	4. III: December 28 1882, an express train from Edinburgh to Dundee

"Get up. Now." said the voice that had woken him up. John could tell without opening his eyes that the cold, hard thing they pressed to his temple was a gun. So when he did open his eyes, the sight was not an unexpected one. The two men who had been the only occupants of the last carriage of the train apart from him, now wearing their coats and hats. They dragged him to his feet.

"Move."

He did. With a gun against his temple, it seemed the wisest thing to do. They made him step onto the small platform attached to the carriage. He felt the wind and the rain on his face for a second, then he was pushed violently from behind and he fell. 

There was no time to prepare for the pain, but he knew he would not be able to make a run for it when he felt it. Already the warmth of blood spread over his face and right leg as he lay motionless for a moment, slowly recognizing his surroundings. He had been pushed right onto the bridge crossing the Firth of Tay. He was almost there.

He became aware of voices behind him. He had been immediately followed by the two men from the train, who appeared to be currently nursing some scratches they had got from their fall. John doubted whether tending to their injuries would keep them occupied for very long since they had both jumped off voluntarily and had been prepared to fall, but the mere fact that they dared do it at all told him they were well aware he was entirely at their mercy. Now was his only chance to act unseen, and he knew it would not last long. He unfastened his watch chain and with it tied his watch to one of the steel beams of the bridge. Then, there was a deafening noise behind him, and when he turned to see where it came from the bridge seemed to be floating in mid-air, ending abruptly halfway to the shore. The train was gone. Before he became fully aware of what had happened, the kidnappers who had involuntarily saved his life by pushing him off a train were stooping over him and dragging him up and away. They let him stumble and fall again and again, but they always forced him to his feet after a fall and wordlessly resumed their flight. He had left a clue on the bridge. But it was one that only Sherlock would recognize. And thinking of the state Sherlock was probably in right now was painful.


	5. IV: December 31 1882, Dundee

Forty-six bodies were lying in repose in the church of St. Mary, waiting for people like him: men, women and children who could not find a way yet to cope with their still fresh bereavement. The silence was complete except for the stifled sobs of the ones left behind. He felt left behind. And apart from that he hardly felt anything. He was in a terrible state, a state John would never have allowed him to be in had he been there, but Sherlock didn’t notice. And if he had noticed he would not have cared. Only the grieving families around him noticed the elegant young man in his long, dark coat, they noticed his pallor and the slight shivers running through his body, but none of them dared speak to him. He looked almost surreal, like a vision. He looked like the incarnation of human pain.

He moved silently through the rows of bodies. The United Kingdom was now ringing with the news of the tragedy, and the friends and relatives of the passengers on the train had been asked to identify their dead. He had never been so terrified by the prospect of looking at a corpse. But he also wanted to know. He kept looking. There was only one row left now. He walked along it, searching the faces as he passed. He came to the end of it. John’s body had not been found.

There had been twenty-six persons on the train whose bodies would probably never be recovered. If John was among them, he would never see his friend again. But what if he was not among them? Balance of probability. He had to be among them. But it was harder to believe that John was gone forever now that he knew there was no visible proof for it. His logical, rational mind should not have allowed him to hope for the impossible even for one second. But he could not help it.


	6. V: December 28 1882, a prison in Dundee

"Now, gentlemen, I hope you will forgive me if I excuse myself for a few minutes, I have some rather pressing business to attend to." Professor James Moriarty stood up and smiled at the group of about a dozen men gathered around a table in the guardroom, laughing about nothing in particular and grinning back at him as if they had never been more pleased to see someone in their lives. The dim light shone on his nearly bald forehead. "And do please help yourself to more wine," he continued, indicating a few bottles on the table. Then he turned and left the room, muttering to himself: "Although I doubt the precaution is really necessary. Which of you would have had the wits to notice even if you had all been sober?"

The dimly lit corridor was deserted, except for two men in coats guarding an iron door at the far end of it. They saluted him when he approached. Professor Moriarty then produced a large key ring from his pocket. The keys would all be of the greatest use to him, and none of them belonged to him, but the unsuspecting guardsmen were very unlikely to report the theft for fear of being reprimanded for their thoughtlessness. He turned the key and entered the room. Another two of his agents had been waiting for his arrival inside. They stepped aside when he entered, revealing a third man who was leaning against the wall, his dark blond hair encrusted with blood, and with his head bowed. When the door had fallen shut, he looked up.

"So. Dr Watson, I think. You cannot imagine what a pleasure it is to me to be given the chance to speak freely to you."

Moriarty waited for an answer, then continued.  
"I regret you do not appear to be equally delighted, although you really should be. You are not a prisoner, Dr Watson. I am giving you a choice. More than a choice, I am giving you a chance. The chance of a lifetime, if only you are clever enough to seize it. You won’t talk to me? Good. It is really very simple. You can either live and be my agent – my most important agent since there is no one in the world who could tell me as much about Sherlock Holmes as you can – or you can keep your silence and…" he smiled, baring a row of yellowish teeth "…die."

"Kill me then."

For a moment, the expression of utter indifference faded from the Professor’s face. His mouth twitched, and John thought he was going to lose his self-possession. But the next second, his face was set once more, and he looked John in the eye with an air of superiority.

"Either way, you will help me destroy Sherlock Holmes. I hear from my agents he seems to be completely devastated by your tragic 'death' in a train accident. You know what he can be like, Dr Watson, better than myself, I expect: he will neither eat nor sleep for days, he will only grieve." The way Moriarty stressed the last word made John want to scream. "But – you‘re quite the soldier, I see. Stupid enough to prefer an honest death over the comfortable life of a liar. Still, I shall give you one last chance: I will give you time to think the matter over. A former agent of mine will, I think, gladly change places with you: He has been arrested so many times I have given it up to pay a ransom for him, but I think by his good fortune and your lack of wits his pitiable life will be saved once again. Tonight, he shall leave you his cell and his execution date. All that you will give in return is your clothes, your liberty, and your life." Moriarty stepped away from John and signalled for his agents to resume their positions on either side of their prisoner. "And now, gentlemen, you will please do your best to stop our guest from bleeding out. It would be a pity if he died before the execution."


	7. VI: December 31 1882, Shaftesbury Lodge, Dundee

One last time Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the rather empty hotel room he was leaving behind. Most of his things had already been packed when he had received John’s telegram, but now he was leaving for good, and John had never even arrived. He clutched the crumpled piece of paper in his pocket, a telegram from Mrs Hudson. He could not seem to get those words out of his head, they kept coming back.

_Are you well? Is John with you? He may have forgotten he promised to send me a wire, he left so soon after…_

After what? Sherlock thought. He suddenly realised he had not thought about the last words of that particular sentence since he had first read the message. But he did not need to smooth out the paper in his hand, he could see the words, he had only stopped thinking halfway through the text.

_He may have forgotten he promised to send me a wire, he left so soon after we had read that you needed help. Please let me know if you are both fine._

And it was only then that Sherlock realised there was a crucial bit of information in the telegram that he had not noticed before. He had never asked for help.

So what now? Thoughts were swirling through his head so quickly he could hardly catch their meaning. There was only one thing he knew for sure: There was a chance that John was alive. Finally, when there were too many thoughts that wanted considering and the sudden surprise and relief were beginning to take away his breath, he absent-mindedly made his way across the room to the sofa, just as he would have done had he been in their flat. He curled up on the sofa with his face buried in a soft cushion of pale blue, and a tear fell onto it like a raindrop, and every fibre in his body was aching, and he had never been so grateful.

He needed to think. This was not a good moment for thinking. He was confused and exhausted, and even he had to admit some sleep now and then might have been helpful. But there was no time for sleeping now. He had to make a list of things he knew and put them where they belonged in his mind palace.

Mrs Hudson had received a faked telegram.

Whoever had sent it had wanted John to set off for Dundee.

People who faked telegrams to send someone on an unnecessary journey were likely to have criminal intents.

It would have been very clever to send someone on a journey they would not survive, because of a collapsing bridge, for example, and make it look like an accident. But that was impossible, no one could have foretold either the coming of the hurricane or the collapse of the bridge under that very train. So maybe they hadn’t meant to kill John, at any rate not immediately.

No, he corrected, they hadn’t meant to kill John. They had provided for an explanation for John’s absence that would satisfy those who knew him in London. But they must have expected John to send him a reply to their telegram and they had let him do it. They had wanted Sherlock to become aware of John’s absence. At first.

But, since they could not have relied on Mrs Hudson’s sending him a telegram that would draw his attention to their plan after the accident, something unexpected must have happened and the plan had been changed or cancelled.

So either the train accident was what had happened and they were all dead.

Or something else had suddenly come between them and their plan and he must find out and act.

He opened his eyes. First result. First question. Which hypothesis was the right one?

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Come in."

"Mr Holmes?" Billy’s head appeared in the doorframe. "We found something on the bridge and we can’t make anything of it, so we thought that maybe you would have the kindness to-"

"Where?" Sherlock got to his feet with an effort.

"On the southern side. But, if I may say so, Mr Holmes, you don’t look like you’re up to going out now-"

"I am fine. Just show me where, right?"

"Certainly, if you really wish to go, Sir…"

"Of course I do."

Billy nodded, and they left together. Sherlock had a strange feeling that Billy might have found the answer to his first question. Desperate to find out, he urged Billy on although it cost him all his strength to keep up the pace he considered appropriate while at the same time fighting down his fear of being disappointed.


	8. VII: January 1 1883, the prison from V

John was startled when the iron door of the cell opened for the first time in more than three days. A man entered, and from outside he heard the voice of Professor Moriarty. "I want him blindfold." The man approached John and carried out Moriarty’s order using a piece of dark, heavy cloth.

"Go," Moriarty said when he had finished. They were alone. "One more week, Dr Watson. One more week to live and think matters over and change your mind. It would be a shame to see you die so young, believe me."

"What do you want?"

"I am making you an offer, as I have done before. It would be so ridiculously easy to make it look like you were kidnapped-"

"I was."

"-and let him find you. You could take your place as my agent without difficulties. Just let me give our clever friend a few cryptical hints as to your whereabouts, and I daresay he’ll be here to save his precious companion in no time."

"Your game, Mr Moriarty, clearly wasn’t made for the man you are playing against. Do you really think that Sherlock Holmes would not notice if I started spying on him?" He could hear Moriarty draw a deep breath. "Do you imagine that he would fail to track you down if he found out? Even if I wanted to I could not hide such an affair as this from him. Never. Do please take my advice and come up with a smarter plan next time, otherwise I am afraid he-" Moriarty’s fist hit him hard in the face. 

"Don’t mention _him_ again, I don’t want to hear his bloody name."

"Oh, you’re not good at this, are you, Professor Moriarty? You’re not good at losing."

"I don’t need to be. I don’t lose."

And he left without removing the cloth.


	9. VIII: January 1 1883, the northern block station

Sherlock felt the cold metal of the watch in his hand, the watch he had picked up from the bridge yesterday evening. He had not needed to see the engraved initials of H. W. on it to recognize the watch he had once examined at John’s request.

Finding the watch there had told him much, but not enough. An abduction, most likely. A murder could have been committed in a thousand simpler ways and without risking so much. But it was a perfect spot for leading someone away without being seen.

He had told Billy all about his suspicions and asked for his help. Billy had thought it possible to jump off the train when it was gathering speed after stopping to receive the token, and the place where they had spotted the watch was close enough to the southern block station to suppose that the train had not yet reached its full speed when it had passed there. If the compartment had been empty except for John and his kidnappers, they had had a clever plan. There would be no witnesses to deal with, even if someone had noticed that three passengers had mysteriously vanished from the train.

If the criminals had wanted to draw Sherlock’s attention, they would not have relied on his finding the watch, especially once the bridge had collapsed right under their eyes. For how could they have been confident that the rest of the bridge was not going to collapse as well? And how could they have expected someone to find their clue in such an impossible place? So the watch was a clue, but a clue from John. But how come he had even had time to put it there? Whoever had jumped off that train with him had apparently failed to keep an eye on their prisoner immediately after the fall. Most likely, considering the circumstances, they had had injuries to examine and thus occupied had forgotten John for a moment too long. But if they really had, why had John not seized his chance and tried to run for it? Simple, Sherlock thought with some bitterness. John had probably been hurt as well and had realised that there would be no escape for him that way.

He had to find out where John was. But how? The storm that had swept over Dundee on the night of the 28th might well prove fatal to his investigations. There would be no traces left of anything that had passed in the city that night, none at all. Sherlock remembered walking to the station through utterly deserted streets. No one would be able to tell him anything about the abduction, because no one had been there to see. So that was all he knew.

In the few seconds it had taken him to collect in his mind palace all the facts he possessed, Sherlock had turned around the watch in his hand so that he was now looking at its face. It was 7 pm, and Billy would return any moment. He badly needed a plan.

Hesitantly, he stretched out his hand for the morocco case on the table. His delicate fingers closed around it and he sat motionless for a while. He held it so firmly that it gave the impression that whatever was inside it must never be taken out of that case.

But once he had decided, there was no need to think it over again, and he felt the sharp prick of the needle in his forearm almost immediately after flinging back the lid.

He had to keep himself going until John was safe, no matter what the means.


	10. IX: January 3 1883, the prison

"Look at me, Dr Watson."

John turned his head to where he thought Moriarty’s voice came from. But he still wasn’t looking at Moriarty. He had been blindfold ever since the professor had last spoken to him. He still was, but he was unable to tell how much time had passed since then.

"I have news for you. I doubt whether you will be glad to hear them, though." He laughed quietly, and the sound echoed from the walls of the bare cell. John waited. Moriarty seemed to laugh for ages. Finally, he spoke again. "It would seem that your friend Sherlock Holmes has left the city for good. I knew he didn‘t stand a chance this time, but even you will admit that he will have difficulties finding you in Dundee while he is mourning you in London."

"When did you last see him?"

"On his way to the ferry, two days ago."

"What state was he in?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"Tell me if he was all right."

"Accept my offer."

"No."

"I could give you time to take care of our handsome detective before I use you to destroy him."

John hated the way Moriarty spoke of Sherlock.

"You might not know, but there are others out there who care for Sherlock Holmes. If he is in London and in need of help, I do not think his life will depend upon me."

"Even if I were to believe that what you are telling me is true, _your_ life very much depends upon _him_ if you don’t choose the right side anytime soon."

"I will not be your agent. How much time have I got left?"

"Four days, five nights."

John could hear the professor’s footsteps as he crossed the room to the door.

John was too desperate to get all the information he could have about Sherlock to let Moriarty go now. Even if he had to beg a criminal to do him a favour, a single word about Sherlock would be worth it.

"Just tell me. It can’t hurt you if you do, can it? Please tell me about Sherlock." He knew how his voice betrayed his anxiety.

"Quite frankly, I don’t see the need to tell you. You are weakening, body and mind. In a few days, you will know which side you should be on. I hope you will answer my questions correctly then."  
"I don’t need to hear your questions and you can kill me whenever you like, _just_ tell me," John shouted after him when the door had fallen shut. He felt like he was being slowly suffocated by the silence that followed. He leaned against the wall, gasping for breath.

Nothing hurt him like his fear for Sherlock.


	11. X: January 5 1883, a dreary lane in the outskirts of London

"Do you see what I mean, Mr Lestrade? Just like one of O’Thorney’s, isn’t it?"

"Yes, I see. But I can’t say I understand. It can’t be him. What kind of weapon was used?"

"A Beaumont-Adams revolver, like they used to have in the army."

"Nothing to do with O’Thorney’s last victim, then."

"Not with the last one we know of, Sir. Who knows what we’ll find next? After all, we didn’t always find them before he’d murdered another one…"

"Stop talking like that, Burg, we both know O’Thorney is in prison counting down his last days. Did the victim have a weapon?"

"Aye, Sir, he used to carry a small pistol in his pocket, but someone took it away, apparently." Claude Burg, the constable, glanced at his superior, hoping that this new resemblance to the dreaded O’Thorney-murders would make the detective change his mind. When there was no reaction, he added: "And every object of any value, too. Even the wedding-ring. Bit suspicious, isn’t it?"

"Of course it is, and I bet it’s supposed to be. What we have here must be the work of some young fellow desperate and mad enough to imitate the famous Richard O’Thorney, the man who killed for revenge and a living."

They stood silently in the drizzling rain for a while, looking at the body without any reasonable purpose.

"What did you say about the weapon, Burg?"

"A Beaumont-Adams, Sir. You know, the ones they used in the army."

"Yes, in the army indeed. Dr Watson usually carries one, I think. But if it were his surely we would have heard something." He paused. "If this is the deed of an imitator of O’Thorney’s, there must have been a previous victim."

"Aye, Sir, I should think so. I told you we don’t always find ‘em in the right order, Sir."

"And if our imitator is accurate, this victim would have been the man the gun belonged to. If this is John Watson’s service revolver…"

"But Sir, we’ve got no reason to assume that it is, none at all!"

"You are quite right, Burg. Nonetheless, I haven’t heard a word from Sherlock Holmes in a very long time. Where is the revolver now?"

"At Scotland Yard, Sir, but why do you want to know?"

"Because I’m going to take it with me, to Scotland. I need to see Sherlock Holmes. We must know whose weapon we have found and what all this has to do with Richard O’Thorney."

He turned and left the scene of the crime behind, feeling cold with an inexplicable horror and childish because he had let the mere thought of a very unlikely chain of events he had no proof for interrupt his investigations. But childish or no, the case had reminded him of the absence of the young detective and his companion from the capital. He had to talk to Sherlock Holmes.


	12. XI: January 5 1883, in the streets of Dundee/ the northern block station

"Morning, Constable, Sir."

"Morning, Billy. What are you up to, lad? You’re not usually in town in the morning."

"No work to do, Sir, what with our bridge all in ruins, so I thought I might have a look around."

"Of course, I forgot about the bridge. Quite a tragedy, that. D’you think they’ll build a new one?"

"Of course they will! We wouldn’t be Scotsmen if we gave up the bridge, would we?"

"I guess you‘re right, Billy."

"So what about your work, Sir? Anything interesting recently?"

"Oh, nothing, Dundee’s a quiet spot at the moment."

"Well, I don’t mind that, Sir! It was good to see you, Sir."

"You too, Billy. Will you convey my greetings to your mother?"

"Sure I will, Sir. Good day."

The two men tipped their hats to each other and parted. Billy Spring had soon vanished in the bustling crowd, and the constable resumed his daily route through the streets of Dundee.

֍ ֍ ֍

In the late afternoon, when an icy wind had started to blow in the city, Sherlock opened the door of the little block station, hardly conscious of his surroundings.

"Mr Holmes! I’ve been waiting here for hours, I didn’t know where to look for you!"

"There was no need to look for me, I assure you. Anything new?"

"Nothing, Sir." There was both pity and anxiety in the young man’s voice.

"Nothing! How can it be that we can find nothing, not a single clue, not one suspicious word, _nothing_? They must have done it right under our nose that night, just before the accident occurred. They were _lucky_ , nothing more, and all their luck is working against us."

"But what else can we do, Sir?"

Sherlock did not answer. He had stopped pacing the room and was now standing motionless, trembling and gasping for breath.

"To be honest, Sir, I think you shouldn’t have gone out today. We agreed you wouldn’t, I was to do the chatting and questioning and stuff. And you don’t look well, Sir."

"I didn’t speak to anyone, I was observing."

"You said you didn’t want to be recognised, you were going to pretend to be in London."

"And I am sure no one recognised me."

"You should see a doctor, Sir."

"Seeing a doctor is the only reason I’m still here. I need to see a very specific doctor, and until I have there is no medical man in all of Britain who could help me."


	13. XII: January 6 1883, the prison

John squinted in the half-light of his cell. For the first time in days, the cloth had been removed from his eyes. But not by Moriarty, as he soon realised.

"I am to give you this," said a young man with a blunt face standing in front of him, holding out what looked like a newspaper to John.

"Where is your employer?" he asked in reply. The man gave no answer. Apparently, he was not free to say. John wondered where Moriarty might be now, and the last conversation he had had with the professor came to his mind:

_"You are just so stubborn, Dr Watson. You must be dying to see your friend. So why not? Why don’t you go see him? You could have walked away days ago. You should have."_

_"You cannot play this game forever. As time goes by you must lose to Sherlock Holmes. You know that."_

_"Your concern about my future is heartwarming, but I must say I don’t see how it could affect you as it is highly unlikely you will live to see the end of my little game with the great detective."_

His conversations with Moriarty had never varied much. Every day, Moriarty would come to the cell and repeat his offer. John having declined it, he would then start talking about how he was planning to continue his _game_ with Sherlock, thus trying to frighten John into an alliance with him. And now it seemed that he had left.

"I am to give you this," the young man repeated, still holding out the newspaper. "He wants you to read the lead article."

John assumed from the tone in the man’s voice that _he_ meant Moriarty. He took the newspaper and put it next to him on the floor. The man shook his head and his eyes narrowed. He produced a gun from his coat.

"I won’t leave until you have read it."

John picked up the paper and began to read, feeling that the lead article could hardly make him feel worse than before. He felt numb after reading the heading. By the time he had finished, his hands were shaking so hard he had difficulties handing the paper back to the agent.


	14. XIII: January 6 1883, Edinburgh Waverley railway station

Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard sighed and looked around. A delay was the last thing he wanted. His anxiety had grown ever stronger since he had left London, and it was not desirable that someone at Scotland Yard should notice he was taking pieces of evidence beyond the border of the country. No news of any recent crime had reached him, and yet he felt that soon a blow must fall. Perhaps he was over-reacting. Perhaps he should have waited for Sherlock and John to return. Either way, it appeared that he would be spending the next few hours at the station. He was tired, he could try and find himself a place to sleep, but he could not help feeling he would find it hard to fall asleep before he had learned the truth from the lips of Sherlock Holmes. He decided to buy a newspaper.

A few minutes later, when the sun was beginning to sink to the ground, all blurred light through the frost-covered glass, he sat down in an armchair in a small café next to the station. An elderly woman brought him a steaming cup of tea, and he lit a cigar and began to read the article on the front page. He put down his cup, then stopped reading and stared blankly at the newspaper before taking it up to continue. Someone at Scotland Yard had been talking. The article featured, more or less correctly, every statement he had made at the crime scene the day before, adding to them the most outraging and bizarre speculations of the author and whoever had been the source of information to him. Richard O’Thorney, of course, was mentioned, as was his possible escape from prison. Any fears that might have been aroused by this were, however, soon appeased, as the author next claimed to have heard from trustworthy sources that the weapon found at the crime scene was strongly believed by a member of the detective police force to belong to one John H. Watson, a close friend of the famous detective Mr Sherlock Holmes. A number of questions both exciting and disquieting followed: Had Dr John Watson killed a member of London’s upper class? Had Sherlock Holmes had a hand in it? Had he, perhaps, even asked his companion to commit this horrifying crime? If one or both of them were indeed guilty, where was their current hiding place? Lestrade came to the end of the article, where his own name appeared:

_Detective inspector Lestrade is now on his way to Dundee to investigate, taking with him important pieces of evidence._

He put down the newspaper, and slowly it dawned on him how dangerous this article was, dangerous for Sherlock, for John, and for himself. If this newspaper article reached any person involved in the murder of William Clarkfield, they would prepare to leave the country. His further investigations would not go unnoticed, and if the revolver he was intending to present to Sherlock proved to belong to John, the public would be outraged, and that was always a danger to people’s common sense and their willingness to act sensibly. If things got out of hand, Sherlock would have to solve the case, and solve it quickly and under the pressure of publicity. He must find Sherlock and tell him all he knew, as soon as possible. Most importantly, though, the article must not spread further. He left a few coins on the table, then grabbed his hat and jacket and hurried out into the night to dispatch a telegram.


	15. XIV: January 7 1883, Firth of Tay/ northern block station

Greg was standing by the shore of the Firth of Tay, gazing across the pale grey water. He had read about the disaster, of course, but seeing the remainders of the bridge, laid out before him like the skeleton of a giant water snake, made him shiver. He watched as the breeze stirred the steely surface of the water and the wisps of fog floating above it.

"It’s not a pretty sight, I know."

The dark voice behind him filled the silence so suddenly he gave a gasp before turning around to face the man who had spoken.

"So, Detective Inspector. You appear to be relieved."

"More than you can know."

"Is that so? If you come to me with help or advice, I shall certainly be more relieved than you can imagine. If not, I cannot think how I could ever take up a case again despite my guilt and failure." A pair of light, desperate and almost unnaturally piercing eyes were turned on the official from London.

"I certainly have quite a lot to tell you, and _I_ am in desperate need of _your_ help – But, Sherlock, what are you talking about? What have you done to yourself? _How_ can I help you?"

"It’s no good talking out here. Come." The young detective turned and walked away from the water. Greg noticed with growing anxiety how thin and fragile the figure in the long black coat looked against the endless grey sky. 

֍ ֍ ֍

"I meant to tell you about this, I wanted to ask for your help, but I have good reason to believe that there are spies in this city, so I did not dare write to you."

"To tell me about what? Please, Sherlock, don’t say you two were actually involved in the murder of William Clarkfield. If that’s what you’re –"

"I swear to you I did not know until this very moment that he had been murdered! Perhaps it would be as well if you told your story first, from first to last."

"Right. Two days ago, the corpse of Mr William Clarkfield – one of the richest men in London as you are no doubt aware – was found in the outskirts of the city. He was shot through the head, and it was not suicide, that at least is certain. But there was a weapon in his hand, and the bullet that was later removed from the fatal wound matches this weapon. The pistol Clarkfield usually carried with him was not to be found, and all items of any value had also been taken from the dead man."

"Do you know what he had in his pockets before he was murdered?"

"A key, a considerable amount of money, and a train ticket to Dover."

"And the weapon?"

"There. Beaumont-Adams army revolver." He produced the weapon from his pocket and put it on the table between them. "And now I need you to tell me if you have seen this gun before."

Sherlock took it and looked at it. He tried to distance himself from the story that might be connected to the item he was examining. Distance could make things easy, bearable. But there was no distance between himself and whatever story had ever been or would ever be connected to this weapon. He put it back on the table without looking at Greg. "It’s John’s."

Greg took a deep breath and looked at the young man before him. "Then tell me your story now."

"John did not kill William Clarkfield, I can promise you that. He did not kill him, and I need you to believe me. I suppose that, before I told you the revolver belonged to John, you were trying to draw my attention to the striking resemblance of this new murder to the ones committed by Richard O’Thorney. Did the murderer take the ticket?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember how O’Thorney always killed his victims with the weapon of the last man he had murdered?"

"Yes, of course I remember."

"Is O’Thorney still a prisoner in Dundee by your state of knowledge?"

"Yes."

"And the verdict?"

"He is to die tomorrow. Sherlock, what is the matter? Look at me, tell me what you know."

"John has been kidnapped, over a week ago. I could find no trace of him, nothing- until now. I fancy that O’Thorney is not a prisoner in Dundee anymore, but as free as air and safely in Europe by now. It all fits together, the abduction in the storm, no traces of either the criminals or the victim, the murder in London and a stolen train ticket that will get O’Thorney out of the country. He could not use the weapon he had stolen from his last victim because it was taken from him when he was caught, but he could use the weapon of the man who would have to die in his stead. Someone will actually have to die tomorrow. In the morning, there will have to be a corpse." Saying it all out loud, having to explain his train of thoughts had saved him from breaking down completely after this revelation, and now he simply must act, and that was all there was. He took his syringe out of its case, ignored Greg’s nervous glances and spoke while the delicate needle pierced his skin. "If you can believe me, I must ask you to help me as well."

"Sherlock, I do believe you – I do, but there is nothing you can do now! With the state you’ve got yourself into, you should be in hospital rather than out here making plans. The way you’re trembling you probably won’t even make it into the city. Just let me –"

"I am going in there and I am getting John out. I have been far too slow this time, and it is almost too late now, but if I cannot save this life I do not deserve the trust of those who put theirs in my hands."

There was a short silence.

"Then what do I do? Will you let me come with you?"

"That is impossible. I need you to go back to London as soon as you can, and from London you must start looking for O’Thorney. Send word to France, and when you have caught him – get a confession out of him." Sherlock’s voice went very quiet. "I would like to save John a trial after this is over."


	16. XV: January 8 1883, the prison

It was still dark outside, and John was thinking of Sherlock. He had let Sherlock down. He should have thought of something, of some way to avoid the horrible end that was coming. If Sherlock had not found the watch on the bridge, he would never even know the truth.

He saw the morning creep into the room. The waiting and the silence were the worst of it all. 

The door opened, and he rose before the agent who had come to lead him out told him to. But the man closed the door and took a step in John’s direction, hand already raised to deliver a blow. Moriarty had not given up yet.

֎ ֎ ֎

Sherlock removed the black mask from the face of the unconscious man on the floor and covered his own with it. He hid his dark curls under the man’s black hat, his clothing under the heavy, black coat the man had dropped when Sherlock had punched him in the face. He shouldered the heavy rifle and took a deep breath. He had had to keep the dose of the cocaine solution high enough to keep him on his feet and at the same time low enough to allow him to work with the most perfect precision. He could not afford a mistake. He was ready. 

֎ ֎ ֎

The agent dragged John to his feet and tied his hands. He felt numb from being punched. 

"I’m done with you now, and I daresay my colleague is already waiting. You’ve wasted your last chance, now move."

John was vaguely aware of walking along a dark corridor, then of daylight flooding everything. The first thing he felt outside was rain. Sherlock liked rain. And clouds, like the grey ones floating above him. There were things he now knew he wanted to say to Sherlock. He wanted to say how much he liked him. How much his friendship had helped make the memories of the war grow distant and less threatening. And that he must not believe what people said about him, what they wrote about him, that he need not be afraid of them. That he was the best and the wisest man John had ever known. But, as Moriarty’s agent had just reminded him, he had wasted his last chance. 

A second agent was waiting for them in the courtyard, rifle already in hand. He nodded to his colleague and watched John being pushed into position. John swayed and vainly reached out for something to hold on to.

"I thought you were a soldier. Surely you will not fail to face death standing?" said the man who had come for him in the morning.

"I assure you I am doing my best."

Moriarty’s last attempt at convincing John, carried out by his agent, had been a lengthy and a cruel one. The more or less healing wounds on his head and leg were now bleeding again, soaking his hair and clothes, but no one was going to stop it this time.

The small, square courtyard of the prison was empty except for him and the two agents Moriarty had chosen. He was now facing the two men who had taken up their position with their backs to the stone wall of the prison, standing a few feet apart, one slightly to his left, the other slightly to his right.

John looked at the ground. The tiny black pebbles were shiny with rain, and fresh drops came falling down on them. It was strange and painful to have lost everything so quickly, so helplessly. There had never been a struggle, never a realistic chance of escaping, everything had just slipped through his fingers. Now he had only his life left to lose.

He looked up when he heard the two men cock their rifles. He wondered if they had done such a thing before, they both seemed very young. He wished he could at least have seen their faces instead of those black masks.

"Look at him," said the man who had spoken before with a sneer on his face. "The very last breaths of a very brave man. And of a veritable idiot." They were aiming now. "Goodbye, Dr Watson."

The agent began to count down from three. John tried to stand up straight one last time.

Two. Everything was blurred, noises were faint and distant.

One. John saw the man’s lips part again, he was going to give the command to shoot, already forming the word with his mouth.

The other agent suddenly whirled around, aimed at his colleague, and shot. There was a scream and another shot, this one fired by the wounded man just before his body hit the ground, writhing. His bullet only missed the other man in black because he was already running, shedding his hat and mask as he rushed to John’s side, revealing a pale, worried face and a mess of dark curls. The next instant, they were both on the ground, Sherlock kneeling next to John, cutting the bonds around his hands, then trying to stop the blood with his coat.

The shots and the cries had alerted the guardsmen, and now they came running out to see what had happened. They found the three men on the ground, one bleeding from a bullet wound, the second, John, unable to give an explanation, and the third, Sherlock, unwilling to, not moving an inch from where he was, only demanding in a calm and quiet voice that they keep their hands off his friend and himself and send for the police.


	17. XVI: January 9 1883, Shaftesbury Lodge, Dundee

John woke up in a bright but unfamiliar room. He could not recall at once what had happened before he had lost consciousness, but immediately searched the room for Sherlock with his eyes.

He was there, asleep in a bed next to his.

For the first time in weeks, John could take a close look at his friend. He was thin, far too thin, and his face was even paler than John remembered it. He looked exhausted. John thought he had probably been exhausted before Mrs Hudson and he had even received the telegram, drained because of the complex and dangerous case he had had to solve in Dundee.

Everything seemed unreal to John. Everything had happened so fast, and at a time when he had already given up. But living with Sherlock Holmes taught one to never give up. Because Sherlock might just be able to solve any problem even on the brink of a catastrophe. The way he had yesterday. John smiled. Then he saw the fresh puncture marks on Sherlock’s forearm.

Now he felt like crying. 

Sherlock had had a cruel time getting off drugs, he had done it at John’s request and succeeded. Now it looked like they would have to go through it all over again.  
He remembered the newspaper article and wondered if they would be tried because of what it said. He wondered who had brought them here and how Sherlock had found him. There were too many things to wonder about, so he stopped wondering and only looked at Sherlock. 

֍ ֍ ֍

When Sherlock woke up nearly two hours later, he did not dare open his eyes. 

The only thing he remembered clearly was him and John being brought away from the prison by policemen. And after that only fear. Panic had risen inside him when John’s consciousness had slowly slipped away, when his eyes had become more and more unfocussed, when he had stopped replying to Sherlock.

He also remembered shouting at the officials to call a doctor, and then someone stating that he was in shock and trying to calm him. 

And he remembered the worst moment of all, the moment they had taken John away from him for treatment. He remembered thinking they would take him away for good. 

He had no more memories beyond that point. He supposed he must have passed out and had been unconscious for several hours.

"Sherlock?"

John. He opened his eyes. John was there. Right next to him. He was pale and weakened from blood loss and whatever else he had suffered during his confinement, but alive and awake and still with him. Still with him. He had not lost his friend.

"How are you feeling?" John asked Sherlock. When he did not reply, John knew he could find no words to match the way he felt. "You really found me."

Sherlock’s face darkened. "I nearly let them kill you."

"It does not matter what nearly happened, Sherlock, you found me, you saved me, and no one else could have done more. No one else could have done even that much."

John decided not to ask about the drugs just yet, not while Sherlock looked so tired.

Sherlock looked at the place on John’s forehead where his hair had been cut short to allow whoever had done it to stitch up the wound. He could see that John was wearing clothes that did not belong to him, but not what he had worn when Sherlock had found him. He realised that all that was left of John’s clothing must be in their rooms in London, the rest having been partly lost in the train accident and partly taken by Richard O’Thorney to provide a disguise. John looked spent. Sherlock smiled at him, wishing to make the look of concern on his features fade away. "We should have a tailor come here. I assume we will spend some more days in Scotland, and you will definitely need a new coat and a few other things."

John nodded, and Sherlock rang for someone to come up to their room. A few moments later, a maid appeared and Sherlock asked her to bid a tailor come to the hotel in the evening. When she had left, Sherlock turned to John again. "What did they do about your leg?" he asked.

"I don’t remember being treated, but it’s bandaged now." This time it was John who smiled to take away some of Sherlock’s obvious anxiety. "So there is really no reason to be so concerned."

"Of course there is. You were very close to being shot and you don’t look well in the least. What have they done to you?"

"They’re not after me, Sherlock. Someone kept coming back to the cell to ask me if I would become their agent. He said he wanted my help to destroy you, and now you have crossed his path voluntarily. You need to be careful."

"Who said all that?"

"He introduced himself as Professor Moriarty, but he may not have been using his true name when speaking to me."

"I think he was," said Sherlock quietly. He had come across that name before. He had long suspected the Professor of being the head of a vast criminal organisation. He had been observing him from a distance for months. But he had never said a word about Moriarty to John. He had kept his silence because he could not bear to admit either to John or to himself that he was afraid of this man, afraid of having found an enemy he might fail to defeat. Fear and failure were no options for him now. There was no way he was letting the man who had tried to kill his best friend escape. One day, Sherlock would take revenge on him for what he had done. 

"I should have known he was about to become dangerous for us. Do you have any idea where he is now?"

"I think he left Dundee after a few days, but no one would tell me anything about him."

"It doesn’t matter. I will find him, I promise you that. But perhaps we had better talk about him some other time."

There was a short silence.

"How on earth did you manage to be taken for one of Moriarty’s agents, Sherlock?"

"I was observing the prison in order to find a way of getting inside without being instantly recognised. I knew it would not be too easy because I had spoken to some of the guardsmen before, when I was working on my case. The door opened after a while, and a man appeared in the doorframe and said something about the execution to a person that was hidden from my view. I could see from his clothing that he was not one of the official guards. He then left, taking quite a bit of luggage with him. I therefore assumed that he was about to move his possessions from the prison to some other place. But why would anyone store their luggage in a prison and why would they take it somewhere else just after midnight if, as the man had previously stated, they were planning to return for the execution? I could only assume that he was to play a part in the execution, but wished to be seen in the city as little as possible and thus had, somehow, spent the last couple of days in the prison. It seemed to me that he was preparing his departure from Dundee and had the intention of leaving his things somewhere as long as it was still dark, to be picked up before he left, making it the easier for him to make his way through the city quickly and unseen when the execution was over. I followed him to a pub close to the railway station. He spent a few hours there, disposed of his bags and left for the prison in the morning. Again I followed him, until I found myself in a deserted little lane where there was no one to be seen except for the two of us. I threatened him with my revolver, and he told me almost everything I wished to know. Then I knocked him down, took some of his things, bound his hands and left him there. That is how I got inside, and the rest you already know."

John could not help laughing quietly when Sherlock had finished. "If I didn’t know you so well, I should be inclined to think that you just made up some impressive story to account for your rather surprising entrance yesterday morning. But, since I know that you don’t make up stories, I can honestly say that I am impressed."

"There is nothing impressive about it," Sherlock said sincerely. He thought for a while, then added: "So… you would actually have let them kill you rather than even pretend to be Moriarty’s ally."

There was a tone to Sherlock’s voice that John had not heard before, something he did not know how to interpret.

"Sherlock, Moriarty would have found ways of using me against you even if I had been able to fool him into believing that I was willing to work for him. He gave the impression of being capable of anything. He wants you dead."

"But you nearly died."

John suddenly understood the strange, unfamiliar tone in Sherlock’s voice. It was shame. And astonishment.

"Sherlock, I don’t regret what I said to Moriarty, I don’t regret what I did. I knew what I was doing and I knew what it would lead to, I… wanted it that way. There is nothing for you to be ashamed of."

"Thank you, John" Sherlock managed to say after a while. "Although the phrase is entirely insufficient to express what I mean by it."

John was smiling at him now, really smiling, the way Sherlock had wanted him to. 

A knock on the door broke the silence. The maid Sherlock had spoken to earlier had come back to deliver a telegram. She handed it to the detective, waited for him to read it and asked if a reply should be sent. Sherlock shook his head, and she left. 

"It’s from Lestrade," Sherlock explained. "I asked him to track down O’Thorney. He doesn’t seem to have been very successful, though."

"Where do you think O‘Thorney is?"

"Somewhere in Europe. He stole a train ticket to Dover from the late Mr Clarkfield and I have no doubt that he made it to the French shore. But there is no denying now that a serial killer has escaped from the prison of Dundee, and if the police have any sense left, he will remain the main suspect unless either of us can be proven guilty. And they will not find it an easy matter to lay a charge against us in spite of the efforts of Professor James Moriarty, I hope." He paused and looked John in the eye. "I will not have you publicly accused of any crime, John."

"I am not worried about being tried. O’Thorney will probably betray himself soon enough."

"Yes, he probably will. He is an imbecile."

It struck John that he had never found out why Sherlock had asked for his help in his last telegram.

"What did you want my help for when you sent me that wire?" he asked.

"I never sent you that wire. Moriarty’s agents sent it to trap you. I was about to return to London when the train accident occurred."

"But you do know you can ask for my help when you need it, I hope."

Sherlock nodded.

"You should sleep, John."

"So should you."

"I will try to."

"Good."  
Sherlock watched John fall asleep, shreds of their conversation still drifting through his head. Some of the words he still could not quite comprehend. 

"I do not deserve your friendship, John," he said quietly.


	18. XVII: January 11 1883, Belle-et-Houllefort, Département Pas-de-Calais, France

"She will not say anything, Monsieur Lestrade. She says she knows nothing about it."

Lestrade sighed. It was unnerving not to be able to talk to witnesses in their mother tongue.

"But she does, I am sure of it. Tell her about O’Thorney, describe him, tell her who he really is."

Night was falling in the little village of Belle-et-Houllefort, wrapping the old village inn in a slowly deepening darkness. Half a dozen policemen were gathered around the landlady, a small woman with large hazel eyes somewhere in her thirties, listening intently as the rather frustrating interview continued, Lestrade’s questions being translated into French by an officer from Calais who would then listen to the sobbing woman’s reply and translate it into English for him.

They had found her husband dead, shot near one of the pastures, only a short distance away from the inn and very likely within earshot of it. And they had found the pistol of Mr William Clarkfield. They were very close to catching O’Thorney. But Lestrade knew they might have caught him already if Madame Arbré had been willing to reveal to them what she knew about the murder.

He had gathered from one of the local policemen that the landlady’s marriage with the late Monsieur Arbré had never made her happy, that she had been violated, that her husband had been a drunkard. He also thought their witness gave the impression of being afraid and nervous rather than devastated by her husband’s death. And he was almost sure she must have heard the shot that had killed her husband only a few hours ago.

"I shall ask you one last time, Madame Arbré: Did you or did you not hear a shot?" Lestrade waited impatiently for the officer to translate his question.  
The woman looked around, desperate. Finally, she raised her head.

"Oui. J‘ai entendu un coup de feu." 

The officer looked at Lestrade. "She did hear a shot."

Madame Arbré burst into tears.

֍ ֍ ֍

Half an hour later, they knew everything of importance about the unhappy Manon Arbré and her encounter with the serial killer Richard O’Thorney.

It turned out that he had engaged a room in the village inn using a false name and, having met the kind and attractive landlady, had unwisely decided to stay in Belle-et-Houllefort for a few days. Despite their difficulties when it came to conversation, Madame Arbré and O’Thorney had come to know each other better, and the criminal had soon learned how to make the most of the Arbrés‘ broken marriage. 

The landlord, however, had become suspicious. He had begun to watch his wife closely. This evening, he had found the couple in the old barn behind the inn. 

The men had begun to quarrel, Arbré already drunk and dazed, O’Thorney steaming with rage. Suddenly, there had been a gun in O’Thorney’s hand.

Madame Arbré told them she had been too terrified to interfere when the two men left the barn, still arguing violently. A few minutes later, she had heard the shot. Finally, she had mustered the courage to see for herself what had happened and had found her husband dead, with a bullet in his head.

She claimed she had never seen O’Thorney’s weapon before and had been entirely unaware of his true identity. She told them she had pretended to know nothing about the murder for fear of being arrested herself.

And she told them she had caught a glimpse of O’Thorney running in the direction of the vast forest that covered the little hill they could see from the inn, no doubt with the intention of hiding there. And that she was afraid that he would remain concealed until he thought it was safe for him and then return to the village.

Finally, they knew where to look for Richard O’Thorney.

Two policemen were left at the inn for the protection of Madame Arbré.

The rest equipped themselves with lanterns and guns and began to move toward the dense, dark labyrinth of trees in the distance.

֍ ֍ ֍

They stopped when they came to the eaves of the forest, just before they had to darken their lanterns so as not to be seen by O’Thorney. Once again, Lestrade asked the officer from Calais to translate what he said. 

"We will split up into five groups now, as planned. When you enter the forest, try to be as quiet as possible and to remain unseen in case _you_ see something move. If you find O’Thorney, do not shoot unless it is necessary. Try to take him by surprise and bind him. Then bring him to the village inn if you can and try to inform one of the other groups. If he shoots, defend yourselves but do _not_ shoot if you are not utterly sure who it is that you’re aiming at. That is all for now. Good luck, and let me thank you for your excellent cooperation."

Each group set off in a different direction, and soon all except for the man from Calais who would be accompanying him had vanished from Lestrade’s sight. 

They chose their own direction and walked towards the trees until the forest had swallowed them up. It was strange and unsettling to be walking under these tall, dark trees with only the fickle light of the moon to show them the way. Once or twice something stirred in the undergrowth next to them, but they found nothing there. It was difficult to tell how much time had passed. 

They came to a large hollow in the forest, a basin with trees on its rims and trees covering the ground. They stepped closer to the brink of the basin, trying to discern whether anything was moving on the ground. Something stirred between the trees. The next instant, the dark shape was gone. They both stopped dead. Then a cloud hid the moon from them and they could see nothing. They waited, hardly daring to breathe. Slowly the faint, blueish moonlight crept back into the forest. Again, Lestrade thought he had seen something move down in the hollow, but whether it was man or beast they had spotted he could not tell. 

"We’ve got to go down there," Lestrade whispered, hoping his voice would not betray them. His companion nodded. Slowly, carefully, they picked their path through the trees. If one of them slipped, they would never catch whatever they had seen unawares. The dry leaves that covered the ground made it difficult to put down a foot without making a noise. 

Finally, they found themselves standing at the bottom of the hollow. Above them, tall trees were looming up, swaying slightly, and Lestrade suddenly felt trapped. But now they had no choice. They had to keep looking. 

Slowly, they began to search the hollow, coming ever closer to its middle, where the darkness was almost impenetrable. 

They had to stop when the moon was once again hidden from their view.

They stood still in the darkness, waiting. A slight breeze made the fallen leaves rustle. Was it the leaves? Somehow, the noise seemed to be growing louder, approaching from behind. It was still too dark to see anything. Suddenly the rustling stopped, and then there was a different sound: the sound of someone breathing, someone who must be standing right behind them. Lestrade froze. He could not tell if the man had even noticed they were there.

And he could not tell if it was O’Thorney or one of their colleagues, perhaps looking for them because he had news.

They needed light. If it was one of the policemen, they could resume the search afterwards. If it was O’Thorney, the light of the lantern might still puzzle him and give them time to act. But just as he decided to uncover the lantern, things took their course without his contribution: The moon reappeared. The same instant, there was a stifled scream, and the officer from Calais stumbled and fell, brought to the ground by the man who was now running from them, hoping to escape his fate yet again.

"Allez, monsieur!" his French companion shouted when Lestrade did not move. "I am fine, but your man will give you the slip if you don’t follow him!"

And Greg Lestrade dropped the lantern and ran. 

Just outside the forest, when O’Thorney was already within reach of a shot, Lestrade called to him to stop. 

Yellow spots of light appeared in the distance, marking the place where the village of Belle-et-Houllefort was spread out below them. Every step forward would bring the criminal closer to the village, where the police were already waiting for him, and every step backward was as good as going straight to prison. 

"If you take one more step, Richard O’Thorney, I promise you it will be your last."

When O’Thorney threw a glance behind, he knew he had reached a dead end. 

The cornered criminal turned around so suddenly he had nearly knocked Lestrade down before he had even realised O’Thorney had decided to attack him. In an instant, they were both on the ground, either one of them struggling to overcome the other. Lestrade had been forced to let go of his revolver, which was now lying in the grass beside him, clearly the target of O’Thorney’s efforts. For now, it was all he could do to keep this reckless murderer as far away from the weapon as possible. 

But then O’Thorney somehow managed to get a firm grip on Lestrade and force him to the ground, and soon he felt strong, cruel hands tighten around his neck, eager to strangle him to death. He strove to free himself of the iron grip, but after a few moments he could not hear anything but the blood throbbing in his veins, his own heartbeats, his last heartbeats, most likely. 

But O’Thorney could not be given the chance to flee again. It simply must not happen now, not this time. And so Lestrade concentrated all the strength he had left in one last, desperate blow. It hit O’Thorney right on the head, a blow he had not expected would ever fall. He swayed. Lestrade seized his only chance, pushed O’Thorney aside, grabbed his revolver and somehow got to his feet. 

There he stood, panting, pointing his weapon right at the criminal’s head. Finally, finally, he had got him.


	19. XVIII: March 12 1883, London

Sherlock and John walked out of court side by side.

Richard O’Thorney had been tried and proven guilty. Sherlock’s brilliance and the deductions he had presented to the jury had helped, of course, even though the vehemence with which he had spoken whenever John’s connection to the murder of William Clarkfield had been mentioned had probably startled them somewhat.

Lestrade had also been an important and helpful witness, and both Sherlock and John had reason to be grateful for his friendship that day. 

Sherlock looked John over as they walked. He looked much better now, and all traces of fear and pain had vanished from his eyes. Sherlock knew that the scar on John’s leg was still visible and would be for some time to come, but the injury was no longer noticeable from the way he moved. 

But even though the reminders of John’s encounter with James Moriarty were slowly disappearing, Sherlock had not forgotten his promise. He had promised John to track down professor Moriarty. And he would not lose another day. Now that Richard O’Thorney was no longer a danger to them, there was nothing to distract him from his mission.

Already his thoughts were gathered around this man Moriarty, slowly beginning to weave a web from which there was no escape.

John could see that Sherlock was deep in thought, and they walked home in silence while the sky darkened and lights began to spring up in the houses around them. 

Sherlock spent the evening accumulating all the information about Moriarty that he could lay his hands on, memorizing every last bit of it. Everything might be of use in this case, even the smallest detail. And with his mind set on victory over Moriarty, he could not afford to neglect anything of importance. 

From this day on, although he still took other cases beside that of the criminal professor, there was not one day when Sherlock did not think of Moriarty, not one day when he did not brood over his case or search the streets of London for a sign of his presence. 

Not one day for over a year. Not one day until it was over.


	20. XIX: May 5 1884, Baker Street, London

John opened the window and leaned out a little. There were the roofs of London, spread out before him like a vast labyrinth, as if there were nothing in the world but houses and streets and people. There, sure enough, was the evening traffic, people coming and going, horses and broughams and dog-carts, as if there had never been anything in the world but movement and noise and haste. As if it would never stop. 

The air was sweet and heavy with the promise of May. The false, shattered promise of spring.

There was the vast labyrinth of London, still right before his eyes, but there was no one now who he knew the way through all its lanes and sideways. 

Sherlock was dead.

John had been lonely before he had met Sherlock, but he had hardly known the alternative then. The loneliness had come to be a part of his life after he had been wounded in the war. The wound had not taken his life, but it had taken his future. Or so he had thought. He had been ready to spend his life serving the army, either until retirement or until death chose to stop him. But not to be sent back to England as an invalid. The thought had never occurred to him, he had seen no alternative to military service. He had been caught in mid-air and brought to the ground. 

He had felt lonely then, left behind and disappointed. But it had been a different loneliness. There had been no gap then, no empty space someone had left in his life. Now there was the void. 

Sharing rooms with Sherlock Holmes in Baker Street had saved him. He had learned how to live outside the army and how to enjoy it. He had gradually adjusted to a new life that had taken the pain out of everything that had happened and made him look upon it as a lucky chance instead. 

John had seen horrible things in Afghanistan, and yet he had never been so haunted by nightmares. He saw the Reichenbach fall every single night. 

He had been wounded in the war, and yet had never felt such pain. 

He had never met someone like Sherlock before. He never would again. Again, his life was in pieces, standing still while the world kept moving. A dead soul in a living body.

He missed Sherlock. 

But Sherlock was dead.


	21. Epilogue: May 23 1886, Baker Street, London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of "The Man of Iron", so I hope you enjoyed the story:) Anyway, I'm glad I finally got it done...;)

More than two years ago, Sherlock Holmes had made it his mission to track down the man who had nearly killed his best friend. Now he had succeeded. 

After weeks and months and years of investigating, of fear, of doubt, of near failure and exhaustion, after the case that had made him rise higher than ever before and that had cost him more strength than any other, Sherlock was back in Baker Street. And so was John.

They had had a difficult time at first. 

Being without John, Sherlock had made so little contact with other people he had felt isolated, separated from the rest of the world by an impenetrable wall that was his mind. It had become harder and harder to say or do anything which might have revealed even the tiniest bit about who he was as a human being. Before he had met John, Sherlock had never even thought about showing some kind of feeling towards anyone because he had not known then, no, had not wanted to know that those feelings existed for him. 

He had worn the mask that suited him best, the only one underneath which he could bear to live: The mask of the genius, the man who could see through everyone in a split second but needed no one, reckless and ruthless and indifferent. Wearing the mask had been easy then. This time it had hurt.  


For two years, he had longed to see John, to tear away the mask and live again.

But then he had found that John had moved away from Baker Street. And when they had met, finally, John had been angry with him for pretending to be dead, a reaction for which Sherlock had not been prepared, although later he had to admit it was quite understandable, he should have expected it.

But they needed each other so much it had only been a matter of time until John had moved back into 221B.

Sherlock had returned to London very thin and exhausted, and John was still concerned about his friend’s health. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, was not concerned about anything these days. He felt safe in John’s presence, and did not waste his time worrying about his health; John would look to that, and he only had to do as John told him, at least occasionally. 

He was in bed now, doing as John had told him, or nearly so. John had told him to go to sleep.

But Sherlock found it impossible to sleep. He was staring at the ceiling, thinking about the greatest miracle he had ever known.

John being his friend was certainly a miracle worth sacrificing his sleep for. 

He thought about today. They had had quite a horrible morning, and Sherlock had to admit that he was mostly to blame. It had begun with him complaining about boredom and praising the soothing effects of cocaine, and it had ended with John leaving the flat and not returning until dusk. Sherlock had been the one to apologise. Still, he felt that he had one thing to say yet, one thing that was crucial.

There came a soft knock at the door, and John appeared in the doorframe, a cup of tea in one hand and a burning candle in the other. He frowned when Sherlock sat up in bed. "You should sleep, Sherlock," he said with a sigh and handed him the cup of tea. 

Sherlock smiled up at him in answer. Now was his chance, and he knew he must seize it, he had loathed himself more than once for not saying things the way they needed to be said, the moment they needed to be said. His smile faded, his expression changing to seriousness.

"John, there is one thing you really must know. I need you. I may not deserve your friendship, but believe me, I need it. I am not pretending, I never have been. Every day I am grateful for having you back here, and every time you leave the flat after an argument I am terrified by the thought that one day you might not come back." 

For a moment John just stood and looked at him, astonished, taking it all in.

Sherlock took a deep breath and waited.

"Don’t be afraid,“ said John gently, as if it was something he had to protect Sherlock from. "There’s nowhere I’m going. Look, there is nothing holding me here but the simple fact that it’s where I want to be. Not because of the rent, not because it’s London. Because of you. Because I need you every bit as much. That’s what you need to remember."

He smiled at Sherlock, a warm, reassuring smile.

Sherlock smiled back. Sherlock’s real, honest smile was the one John loved the most in the world, perhaps the truest smile he had ever seen, one that made words superfluous and insufficient. 

For Sherlock, John’s smile was the last step towards a necessary admission to himself, one that he had been expecting and was not sorry to make. 

He was living in 221B, and John was still with him. Still with him.

It made him happy. 

He did not try to distance himself from feelings now. 

The man of iron had ceased to exist more than four years ago, when Sherlock had begun to live in those familiar rooms in Baker Street with John.


End file.
